STAR TREK DISCOVERY
by Brava
Summary: A work in progress fanfic called Star Trek Discovery, and is set in 2363, the year before the start of The Next Generation, onboard an old constitution class ship approaching retirement :
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

On the main viewscreen of the Federation starship Houston, the large freighter tumbled slowly through space against a backdrop of hundreds of distant stars. The long, thin hull of the freighter, more than twice the length of the Starfleet ship that had come to its aid, was pitted and scorched by the merciless barrage of weapons fire directed at the vessel by its attackers. Most of the ruined freighter's detachable cargo pods were missing, a few still floated nearby, all forcibly cut away from the central core of the spacecraft in the aftermath of the brutal assault on an essentially defenseless ship. Equipped with only simple deflector shields and navigational phasers, the small civilian crew had stood no chance of repelling a determined attack by an experienced pirate crew armed with vastly superior weapons that could threaten even a Starfleet ship.

Captain Paul Kelland surveyed the unsettling scene with barely restrained fury from a tense bridge at red alert, his eyes tracing the undulating violet tendrils of drive plasma leaking from the derelict freighter's charred engineering hull. He and the rest of his crew had witnessed the horrific aftermath of four identical attacks in the two months they'd begun their current patrol, all carried out by the same infamous pirate vessel that had terrorised civilian shipping in this lonely tract of space for months.

The Houston had responded to the urgent distress signals of each freighter or cargoship at maximum speed, but had on each occasion arrived too late to drive off the merciless crimson-hulled pirate vessel, which had become known amongst the vessels who plied the isolated spacelanes of the area as the Red Dagger. A fearsome vessel, the Dagger was both well-armed and fast, but most significantly equipped with masking circuitry that made it virtually undetectable on long-range sensors. And Kelland knew that out here on the frontier, far from the well-trodden and highly populated core regions of the United Federation of Planets, the vulnerable civilian freighter crews who saw their fellows being brutally attacked and massacred with a terrifying frequency, considered the Red Dagger to be essentially unstoppable.

Fifteen weeks had passed since the first of these savage attacks had been recorded by the USS Truman, another Starfleet vessel operating in the lonely hinterland that lay between the Federation and the forbidding territories of the vast and powerful Romulan Star Empire. Even after fifty years of near-isolation from the affairs of the galaxy, the Empire's spectre nonetheless loomed large of the entire region like the frightening bird of prey that adorned the Romulan military crest.

"We're detecting no lifesigns aboard the freighter, captain," first officer Doug Richards announced grimly from the raised quarterdeck that encircled the Houston's bridge. "Although we showing what appear to be bodies scattered throughout the habitable areas of the ship."

Kelland closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath of recirculated air as he automatically recalled the horrific scenes he'd witnessed aboard the other four derelicts in the preceding weeks. Even though an away-team from the Houston would inevitably have to board the freighter, the captain was nonetheless reluctant to order any member of his crew across to the broken vessel that now tumbled without power ahead of his starship.

"Are those sections of the vessel still holding atmosphere?" Kelland asked after a moment, resigning himself to the fact that an away-team would need to be sent to confirm the fates of the freighter's tragic crew. The vessel had been holed in numerous places by the onslaught of weapons fire, and the hideous endeavour would at least be completed in less time if the away-team could transport aboard without having to wear bulky EVA suits.

Commander Richards scrutinised the streams of sensor data scrolling across the sensor console, leaning in close past the young lieutenant manning the station.

"Yes, captain," the first officer responded. "The emergency bulkheads appear to have isolated the sections that were breached during the attack."

Pulling his gaze away from the floating tomb that the freighter had become, Kelland turned to address his second-in-command. "Prepare a minimum away-team, commander," he ordered with some hesitation. "I'll be leading it. Have Doctor T'Nar and two of her assistants meet me in transporter room one in fifteen minutes. I'll also need a couple of engineers to download the contents of the vessel's computer."

Richards nodded briskly, darting away to contact the necessary department heads to assemble the captain's away-team.

"Stand down red alert," Kelland said, turning back to the main viewscreen as his well-trained crew complied with his commands. As he continued to watch the wrecked freighter, he tried as best he could to prepare himself to once again face the shocking scenes that he knew awaited him on board.

* * * *

As he finished dictating his latest log entry, detailing the Houston's response to the distress signal and its subsequent discovery of the source, Paul Kelland realised that nearly three hours had passed since his return from the derelict freighter. It was now early-evening, and he had used the time well, beginning with a visit to his quarters as soon as he'd been able to thoroughly cleanse himself of the unsettling smell of death that seemed to cling to his body and clothes. He'd spent over twenty minutes in the compact sonic shower, allowing the relaxing vibrations of the acoustic pulses to purge the odors and grime for twice as long as the guidelines recommended.

After recycling his soiled clothes through the replicator and dressing himself in a fresh uniform from his closet, Kelland had returned to duty feeling refreshed, if still a little uneasy from his most recent away-mission. Instructing the communications officer on the bridge to open a communications channel to Starfleet Command on Earth, Kelland had retired to his ready room adjacent to the command-centre to relay his gruesome findings back to Rear Admiral Frank Webber, the captain's immediate superior.

The away-team from the Houston had discovered that the freighter had been registered at a spaceport in orbit of Bolarus IX thirty years earlier, and was helmed by a combination of civilian Bolian and human crew members, all of which had been brutally killed when the pirate crew of the Red Dagger had boarded the crippled vessel. In almost identical scenes to those he'd witnessed aboard the other ships that had been attacked by the Dagger, the small freighter crew had been massacred by a superior force using both disruptor pistols and bladed weapons, hideously slaughtered by the merciless pirates for whom stealing the ship's precious cargo of ore wasn't enough.

Admiral Webber had listened in grim silence until Kelland had finished describing the the attack on the freighter, promising to contact the Bolian representative who stood on the Federation Council, who would in turn arrange for two Bolian ships to make the journey out to the Romulan frontier to tow the derelict spacecraft back to port where the crew's bodies could be taken off for burial.

Since the Houston was currently patrolling the Romulan Neutral Zone, the narrow buffer of neutral space drawn up by Earth and Romulus in the aftermath of the war, the delay in communications between the Starfleet ship and Earth could be measured in seconds. The concentration of dedicated Starfleet booster relays that had been deployed throughout Federation space to assist with subspace communications between its ships and stations was particularly high between Earth and the Neutral Zone, with the intention that any warning of a forthcoming Romulan invasion would be received by Starfleet Command with as little delay as possible. The efficiency of the relay network in this part of space also meant that Kelland had the unwanted capability of verbally communicating these gruesome reports to Admiral Webber back at Starfleet Command, where a written report detailing his findings would have sufficed had he been elsewhere in Federation space.

Unfortunately, the continued attacks by the Red Dagger showed no sign of stopping.

Kelland leaned back in his chair and blew out a long, exasperated breath, his eyes lingering on the Federation seal that had replaced the sullen face of Frank Webber after the admiral had terminated the subspace link between the Houston and San Fransisco on Earth. In his twenty-five years of unbroken service to the United Federation of Planets as a Starfleet officer, he had never encountered an ongoing situation such as the one that he currently faced. He commanded a state-of-the-art new-orleans class starship, in only its fifth year of service since being launched from the Utopia Planitia shipyards in orbit of Mars, but was apparently powerless to bring a halt to these constant, brutal assaults on civilian shipping.

Other Starfleet vessels on similar patrols were encountering the same hideous aftermath of the Dagger's attacks elsewhere along the Neutral Zone, but as the commanding officer of the most powerful vessel currently assigned to the region, Kelland couldn't fully banish the sense of personal responsibility he felt for stopping the pirates' murderous campaign.

Suddenly, the captain was snapped from his frustrated contemplation of the situation when Doug Richards burst through the doors to the ready room, apparently having dispensed with all notions of protocol or privacy.

"We need you out here, sir," the first officer told him curtly, his face a mask of what the captain identified as panic. Richards had been assigned to the Houston only three months earlier as first officer, and Kelland had noticed how the commander displayed definite indications of being out of his depth at being second in command of a modern Starfleet vessel.

But such concerns over the suitability of Richards to his new role were swiftly banished by Kelland as he charged from the private sanctuary of his ready room and onto the Houston's bridge, moving to stand beside Richards on the deck just forward of his command chair. On the viewscreen, the Bolian freighter was no longer tumbling uncontrolled through space, having been caught by the Starfleet ship's tractor beams and brought to rest as a sign of respect to the crew. All around Kelland, his well-trained bridge crew were studiously engaged in their duties, obviously concentrating on whatever urgent development had prompted Richards to burst into the ready room in such a manner.

"Report," the captain called into the tense hush that had descended over the command centre.

"We're picking up a signal on a civilian subspace channel," Richards informed him. "It's not directed at anyone in particular, someone just sent it out into space for all to hear."

"What does it say?" Kelland demanded, his harsh tone betraying his annoyance at having to press Richards for information in this way.

"Someone says they've sighted the Red Dagger not far from here," the commander said. "They've included a rough approximation of its course. It looks to be travelling perpendicular to the Neutral Zone border."

Spurred into action by this unexpected piece of good fortune in many weeks, Kelland spun to address the young lieutenant currently manning the helm console. "Yellow alert! Make our course to follow theirs and engage at warp nine!" he commanded before glancing back at Richards. "I'm not letting this bastard get away this time."

Richards nodded in agreement. "Why do you think he isn't using his masking circuitry?"

"Perhaps the Bolians managed to do more damage to the Dagger than we initially thought," the captain postulated, watching the viewscreen as the freighter slid out of sight. Moments later, the distant stars stretched into long streaks of starlight, and the starship shuddered slightly as the powerful engines flared to life and accelerated the Houston into warp.

"Now at warp nine, captain," the helmsman announced.

Kelland nodded absently in acknowledgement, his tactician's mind already calculating the best strategy for attacking the formidable pirate vessel that was now his quarry.

* * * *

Two hours into the Houston's pursuit of the damaged Red Dagger, Paul Kelland sat anxiously in the ship's main dining room, aware of the increased vibrations being transmitted through the deck that signified a starship being driven hard. At speeds below warp factor nine the modern Starfleet vessel offered no noticeable indication of its velocity, but at warp nine and above even the ship's state-of-the-art inertial dampener systems were unable to fully suppress the vibrations produced by the powerful warp engines.

The dining room was quiet that evening, with only a handful of the Houston's one hundred and forty strong crew choosing to eat their meals with their colleagues in the vessel's main communal area. Kelland fully understood and agreed with their decision, he himself having little or no appetite and unable to stop his mental preparation for the forthcoming battle that he faced. But he hadn't eaten in the twelve hours since his light breakfast that morning, and had finally succumbed to Doug Richards' repeated invitations to dinner as the starship at yellow alert sped through this lonely part of the galaxy.

"Well I can't be the only one who's gonna be glad to get the hell off the Romulan frontier," the first officer said breezily, placing two large, freshly-replicated plates of sirloin steak and salad down on the small table shared by the two officers. "Whether or not we do manage to catch the Red Dagger, this whole mess becomes someone else's problem in a few days' time."

Kelland looked up at Richards, who had wasted no time in attacking his steak with his knife and fork. "That's hardly the attitude one would expect from a Starfleet officer," he replied coldly, allowing his words to hang in the air for long moments. For the second time that day, the captain was seriously doubting if Richards was possessed of either the ability nor character to be second-in-command of the Houston.

"I'm sorry, captain," Richards apologised without glancing up, just before shovelling a large fork-full of steak and salad into his mouth. "All I'm saying is that I won't be sorry when the Discovery relieves us and we can get back to our normal duties."

Kelland sighed quietly, cutting into his own steak with what little enthusiasm for the meal he was able to muster. While he didn't appreciate or agree with Richards' sentiment that they should simply wash their hands of the frightening situation with the Red Dagger, he was also a man who had always prided himself on being in touch with his crew's mood. He knew that the ship's company was eager to leave the monotonous patrol duty on the fringes of known space, beyond which lay the Federation's oldest and most powerful adversary.

Largely abandoned by Federation citizens who did not want to live with the constant spectre of the Romulan Empire hanging over their daily lives, the lonely tracts of space alongside the Neutral Zone were not a pleasant place to be. Federation ships and vessels from the nonaligned worlds tended to give the Neutral Zone a wide berth.

For obvious regions, no one wanted to wake the dragon.

Starfleet however did not have the luxury of avoiding the Neutral Zone, and for nearly two hundred years its starships and listening posts had maintained a constant watch over the border. And whether Doug Richards liked it or not, the Houston was one such ship, having been assigned by Starfleet Command to relieve the aging USS Discovery that had returned to Earth for scheduled maintenance and refitting.

"When we do turn this patrol over the Discovery," Kelland began slowly, unsure of how to broach this particular subject with Richards, "We're going to be heading to Starbase 718 for resupply. At that time I intend to request that you be transferred off the Houston, commander."

Richards paused, his eyes widening as he looked up at his captain. "May I ask why?" he said, a little hoarsely.

Kelland placed his knife and fork down on the plate. "Commander, onboard any vessel, but particularly aboard a front line Starfleet ship, it is of utmost importance that the captain and first officer are, and appear to the crew, in step with each other. Perhaps I've been fortunate enough during my career as a captain to always serve with a first officer who compliments my particular style of command. However I don't feel that to be the case with ourselves, Mr. Richards."

The commander looked aghast. "I don't know what to say," he stammered.

"Don't take this as a commentary on your skills or abilities as a Starfleet officer," Kelland told him, remaining professional. "I have absolutely no doubt that you would flourish given a new assignment serving under a different captain. I'm afraid the Houston is, for whatever reason, not a suitable posting for you."

Richards sat back in his chair, apparently having lost his mighty appetite. "Is there anything in particular that has led you to this decision?"

"As I've said, I simply don't feel that our styles are compatible," Kelland said, endeavouring to be as diplomatic as possible.

Richards opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the sudden and intrusive wail of the red alert klaxon.

"Bridge to captain!" the officer called urgently as strips of crimson lighting began flashing around the dining room. "We've found him sir!"

Kelland launched himself out of his chair, hitting his combadge as he strode toward the room's only doorway. "I'm on my way!" he called, hesitating as the door panels hissed open to look back at Commander Richards with a smile. "Now how about we complete our short assignment together on a high?"

Richards grinned. "I'd like that, sir," he said, pushing himself to his feet.

With the red alert siren calling the Houston's crew to battle, both men ran for the bridge.

* * * *

Paul Kelland charged onto the bridge of the Houston after one of the most anxious turbolift rides of his life, swiftly crossing the compact room that sat at the pinnacle of the ship's primary hull and dropping into his command chair. The darkened bridge, illuminated intermittently by red lighting, was now noticeably busier than it had been when he'd left for the dining room. This was of course necessary when the ship was entering a combat situation, where crew members would need to be instantly replaced at their stations should they be injured during the forthcoming battle.

"Intercept in two minutes, captain!" the helmsman called over his shoulder, his fingers moving rapidly over the complex helm controls as the Starfleet ship rapidly closed on its quarry.

"Okay," Kelland announced, raising his voice to address all those present on the bridge, "You've all seen first-hand the atrocities that this ship has committed over the last few months. They've gone beyond piracy and committed hideous acts of murder against defenceless civilian crews. This may be our only opportunity to confront the Red Dagger, and I know that you all share my determination to put an end to these atrocities and bring those murderers to justice. We go in hard and fast. I intend to show them no more mercy than they showed the freighter crews."

"Thirty seconds to intercept," the helmsman reported.

"Raise shields!" Kelland commanded fiercely. "Bring the phasers online and ready photon torpedoes!"

"All sections report ready, sir!" Doug Richards reported.

The captain braced himself for the inevitable drop from the subspace realm that permitted flight at faster-than-light warp velocities, tensing as a vibration moved through the deck beneath him.

The inertial dampers strained against the tremendous deceleration from warp factor nine to a relative stop, working in conjunction with the structural integrity force fields and physical support bulkheads to keep the starship in one piece.

On the main viewer, Kelland watched the elongated white chalk marks that had been stars, transform back into distant pinpricks of light as the Houston came screaming out of warp. In the centre of the screen the hideous crimson-hued hull of the infamous Red Dagger suddenly exploded into view, its disruptor cannons already discharging a stream of destructive energy toward the oncoming Starfleet ship.

The Houston shuddered heavily under the first volleys of disruptor fire impacting the forward defensive shields, as the ship dived in toward the Dagger at full impulse.

"Fire all weapons!" Kelland bellowed, tightly gripping the arms of his command chair as the Houston absorbed a second volley from the pirate vessel's cannons.

Searing lances of phaser fire burned across the void, accompanied by the blinding red flashes of photon torpedoes launched from beneath the Houston's primary hull, all of which impacted against the powerful shields of the Dagger as the Starfleet ship banked sharply away to avoid a collision.

"Those disruptor cannons are packing a hell of a punch, captain!" Lennox called from tactical, using the brief respite of the Houston overshooting the Dagger to deliver his report. "Our shields are at eighty-five percent!"

Kelland gritted his teeth as the Houston banked to starboard, describing a tight arc in space to come back around to face her quarry. If the defensive shields of a new-orleans class Starfleet vessel had been weakened by fifteen percent after just two volleys from the Dagger's disruptor cannons, it was little wonder they'd made such easy work of so many civilian freighters with little or no armament.

"Fire at your discretion, Mr. Lennox!" the captain ordered, watching the pirate ship slide back into view and discharge a fearsome barrage from its cannons.

The Houston's shields flared blue as they absorbed continued disruptor blasts, responding in kind with a volley of photon torpedoes combined with successive arrows of phaser fire.

"I'm estimating the Dagger's shield strength as around forty percent, captain!" Richards reported, working frantically at an auxiliary station on the quarterdeck. "Their speed is dropping! I think we've damaged their engines!"

"Good shooting, Mr. Lennox!" Kelland called. "Helm, bring us around for another pass!"

The Houston described a tight arc in space, all the while taking fire from the Dagger.

"They're distuptor cannons are packing one hell of a punch, captain!" Richards warned..

"Photon torpedoes!" Kelland snapped, grasping the arms of his command chair as his ship completed her turn and brought her weapons to bear on the pirate.

The Starfleet vessel charged at the Dagger, releasing a volley of torpedoes from its forward tubes that smashed into the pirate vessel in a massive explosion of energy.

"They're breaking off!" Richards shouted. "I think we've done some damage!"

On the viewscreen, the Dagger was pulling away from the confrontation, the whole time spitting bursts of disruptor fire toward the onrushing Houston.

"Stay with them, helm!" Kelland ordered, "What's the status of their shields?"

"Estimating twenty percent of nominal power," Richards replied promptly, "Another volley of photon torpedoes should finish them off."

"Fire as soon as we're back within range!" the captain said, watching the fleeing pirate ship. "Are the boarding parties ready to go?"

Richards nodded. "Four teams of six can be beamed aboard at your command, captain," he confirmed.

As the Houston closed on the Dagger again, Lennox discharged a fearsome volley of photon torpedoes, each one striking its target perfectly.

"Their shields are down!" Richards reported.

"Open a channel!" Kelland commanded.

"Channel open!" Lennox confirmed.

"This is Captain Paul Kelland of the Federation starship Houston," the captain announced to the pirates. "You are wanted by Starfleet for multiple acts of piracy and murder. Stand down your weapons and prepare to be boarded."

"Captain, the Dagger is breaking off!" Richards reported urgently. "They're heading into the Neutral Zone!"

"Full stop!" Kelland snapped as he pushed himself out of his chair, unable to remain seated a moment longer. "Mr. Lennox, stop that ship!"

The blistering red arrow of nadion energy lanced out from the Starfleet ship, burning its way across the rapidly-increasing distance between the Houston and the Dagger and striking the retreating pirate vessel squarely astern.

"Direct hit!" Lennox exclaimed.

"Their impulse engines just went offline!" Richards added.

Kelland ignored the hushed murmurs of triumph from amongst the assembled bridge crew and pushed himself to his feet, walking forward to stand between the helm and operations consoles, as if those few feet would bring him closer to his quarry that now drifted helplessly on the viewscreen. Without the mass-reducing effect produced by its impulse engines, the Red Dagger had stalled a million kilometres into the Neutral Zone. Now driven forward by only what little momentum it still carried, the Dagger travelled at only a thousand KPH, effectively coming to a dead stop in galactic terms.

But the million kilometre wide expanse of space that lay between the Houston and its quarry was blocked by an invisible barrier that the Starfleet ship was unable to breach. On the viewscreen, the Dagger spun slightly on its axis, still moving into the Neutral Zone but clearly having lost power. With its engines inoperative and its weapons and shields offline, the most infamous pirate vessel ever to operate in this part of space was defenceless and adrift. In any other situation the Red Dagger could be called a sitting duck, but at that particular moment it was protected behind a line drawn on a galactic map long ago.

Every Starfleet officer knew that any incursion of into the Neutral Zone by military vessels belonging to either Starfleet or the Romulan Guard would be classed as an act of war that would in all probability lead to a devastating conflict between the two most powerful organisations in this part of the galaxy.

"Range to target?" Kelland snapped into the strange lull that had descended over the bridge following the short-lived battle.

"About nine-hundred thousand kilometres, captain," Richards reported, the tone of his voice betraying the futility of the current situation.

Kelland felt his jaw tighten, the anger at having the murderous crew of pirates within arms reach but unable to grasp them. "I suppose increasing the range of our tractor beam or weapons is out of the question," he asked of no one in particular, mentally weighing what few options were currently available to him.

"We can't push either that far, sir," Lennox said quietly, confirming what the captain already knew.

Kelland shifted uncomfortably, the frustration of looking at the Dagger sitting in space ahead of the Houston threatening to overwhelm him. When he thought of the atrocities that the Dagger had committed in the last few months, atrocities that he himself had witnessed firsthand, it seemed almost unthinkable to have come so close to apprehending the ship only to be stopped in such a manner.

"A moment of your time, commander," Kelland said after a moment, gesturing for Richards to join him. "Mr. Lennox keep a close eye on the Dagger, inform me if anything changes."

The captain led his Richards out of the Houston's command centre and into the adjacent ready room, coming to a halt in the centre of the small office and waiting for the doors to slide closed behind his first officer, ensuring that the bridge crew was out of earshot before he started speaking.

"Okay, commander," Kelland began, "That ship out there is responsible for dozens of hideous attacks on defenceless civilian shipping. You and I have both seen the result of an attack by the Red Dagger. These people have committed acts that go beyond simple piracy and stealing cargo, they're boarding ships and cutting helpless crew members to pieces with bladed weapons and have been doing so for months without being challenged by Starfleet. Today fate seems to have handed us the opportunity to bring them to justice, and I can't simply stand by an squander that opportunity because of a line drawn on a map."

Richards gazed at his commanding officer for long moments, appearing to consider his words carefully before speaking. "Captain," he said cautiously, "Entering the Neutral Zone is just about the most heinous crime that a Starfleet commander is capable of. Our ships are absolutely forbidden to do so under any circumstances short of us invading the Romulan Empire. Our treaty with them is explicit: no military spacecraft from either side may enter the Neutral Zone. The consequences would likely be a full-scale war between the Federation and Romulus."

Kelland blew out a long, exasperated breath. "I'm well aware of the treaty stipulations, Mr. Richards," he stated flatly. "But I'm also aware that there have been incursions into the Neutral Zone by both sides in the years since it was established. Now I'm not saying that those commanders have necessarily been justified on those occasions, but they haven't caused a war."

Richard's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I've studied history as well, captain," he retorted. "And on each occasion the political fallout was immense and we were extremely fortunate not to be drawn into a war with the Romulan Empire."

"I'm not talking about taking this ship and dropping photon torpedoes on Romulan planets on the other side of the Neutral Zone!" Kelland snapped, pacing back and forth as he spoke. "I'm taking about edging a million kilometres over the border to apprehend a ship full of brutal murderers! Hell, we could put that sort of distance down to a navigational error!"

"I doubt that, sir," Richards muttered.

"Commander, if I simply let the Dagger sit there for the next few hours and make repairs we'll lose them all over again!" the captain continued, speaking quickly. "They'll fix their engines and weapons, get their masking circuitry back online and vanish into the Neutral Zone! They'll continue attacking shipping and who knows how many innocent people will be massacred before Starfleet catches up with them again!?"

Richard's gaze was downcast, and he stared at the carpeted deck for long moments before replying. "Despite what I might have said earlier about turning this problem over to the Discovery, simply leaving the Red Dagger make its escape again doesn't sit well with me either, captain. But the fact of the matter is that whatever that vessel is guilty of, it's currently sitting inside an area of space that we're forbidden to enter." He paused. "Look, you know how closely Starfleet monitors this part of space. We've got starships and listening posts stationed along the entire length of the Neutral Zone watching Romulan ship movements around the clock, and we know for a fact that the Romulans watch us just as closely. Maybe even more so considering their nature."

"The Neutral Zone is hundreds of light-years in length," Kelland said. "They can't monitor everything that goes on on our side any more than we can monitor everything that goes on on theirs, despite the assurances given to the general public by Starfleet. The Dagger is adrift and disabled, we only need to take the Houston just over the border and lock onto it with a tractor beam. Then we can drag them back into Federation space and board their ship. The whole thing wouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"I'm not sure, sir," Richards admitted, clearly uncomortable with what his captain was proposing. "It's tempting, but if we're spotted by the Romulans the repercussions would be enormous."

"I doubt even the Romulan Empire would go to war with the Federation over us apprehending a pirate vessel guilty of committing terrible acts of violence against civilian ships," Kelland told him.

"It's ultimately your decision, captain," Richards said finally.

"I'm not letting him get away," Kelland stated flatly, before turning and walking straight past Richards, striding out of the ready room and back onto the bridge, followed closely by his first officer. Both men stood before the command chair, eyeing the stalled pirate vessel in the distance.

"Helm," the captain began, thereby resigning himself to intruding, however briefly, into the Neutral Zone, "On my order you will bring us alongside the Dagger as quickly as possible. Mr. Lennox, stand ready to secure the vessel with a tractor beam for immediate retrieval to our current position."

Somewhat understandably, the bridge crew hesitated upon hearing their captain's latest orders, exchanging concerned glances with each other. They were a well-trained crew who were unfailingly loyal to Paul Kelland, but they also all knew the repercussions that could result from a Starfleet ship entering the Neutral Zone, having had the scenario cited numerous times throughout their training.

But inexplicable the order may be, a Federation starship was not governed by a democracy.

"You heard the captain!" Doug Richards suddenly barked from his position at Kelland's side, his sharp tone snapping the hesitant members of the bridge crew into action.

The helmsman tapped the necessary points on his console, and the battle-damaged Houston slid forward across the invisible line that had been drawn in space so long ago. Though there was no tantible change as the vessel crossed into the buffer zone between the Federation and the Romulan Empire, everyone on the bridge was aware of the noticeable increase in tension at encroaching into a place where they were forbidden to enter.

Kelland watched intently as his ship closed swiftly on the Red Dagger, traversing the distance between the disabled pirate vessel in less than a minute. As the Houston pulled alongside the Dagger, everyone present on the bridge appeared to hold their breath as if they suspected a war with Romulus may start at that very moment.

"Preparing to lock on tractor beams," Lennox reported from tactical, apparently as eager as everyone else to snare the Dagger and get back to Federation territory.

"Wait," Commander Richards called out, standing at an auxiliary station on the quarterdeck.

"What is it?" Kelland asked curtly, in no mood for delays at that particular moment.

"I'm showing a significant amount of power still being generated by the Dagger's engines," Richards elaborated, a worried tone creeping into his voice. "I'm not detecting any damage that would account for them coming to a stop out here. In fact I don't think we've done nearly as much damage to them as we first thought."

Kelland looked back at the viewscreen, not fully wanting to comprehend the ramifications of what the first officer was telling him. If the Dagger had essentially come to a stop within the Neutral Zone, just outside the Houston's effective weapons range, when no significant damage had been done to its engines, it led him straight to an inescapable, horrifying conclusion.

"We've flown straight into a trap," he muttered, seemingly needing to speak his sudden realisation aloud before his brain could fully accept it as the truth. "Helm, bring us about!"

But it was too late.

"Ships decloaking!" Richards called out. "They've got us surrounded!"

Kelland watched the viewscreen in abject horror as the murky green spacecraft shimmered into existence all around his ship at point-blank range. As a twenty-five year veteran of Starfleet service, the captain recognised them as being outmoded Romulan vessels even before they'd fully emerged from beneath their cloaks. As his tactician's mind raced he realised that it was unlikely that these were current Romulan ships, since the Romulan Guard tended to keep vessels in service for less than two decades before retiring them in favour of more modern designs. Those retired ships, still perfectly serviceable spacecraft despite being forsaken by the Romulans themselves, were often turned over to their subject races for use in their own fleets.

"Hail those ships," Kelland ordered, mentally considering how best to explain his presence inside the Romulan Neutral Zone to whoever commanded the small fleet that had just decloaked. While it was true that the incursion of vessels into the Neutral Zone belonging to either the Romulan Guard or Starfleet had long been considered an act of war, the language of the treaty had been left intentionally ambiguous with regard to other vessels not directly involved with the military. A handful of trade routes had been established between the Empire's subjugated worlds and the Federation, and the civilian ships that plied these routes traversed the Neutral Zone with impunity.

Since Kelland considered it highly unlikely that the newcomers belonged to the Romulan Guard, he could not even claim that both parties were equally culpable and the situation was therefore a stalemate.

"No answer to our hails, captain," Richards replied eventually, having given the surrounding vessels ample time to respond.

Kelland closed his eyes for a moment, weighing what limited options were currently available to him. The ships had clearly taken an aggressive posture, decloaking within a few hundred metres of the lone Starfleet vessel. In spacegoing terms, the ships were within touching-distance of the Houston, having positioned themselves so that the Houston was left with no unobstructed course out of its current quandary.

Kelland supposed he could slowly ease his ship forward, thereby forcing the surrounding spacecraft into a situation where they had to move or risk colliding with the oncoming Starfleet ship. However his current predicament was already untenable, and forcing a collision with another vessel would turn an already precarious situation into a potentially catastrophic one. He dismissed the option of the Houston fighting her way out of her current captivity without a second thought, even assuming he had the firepower at his disposal to overwhelm these ships enough to make an escape back to Federation space. Even if he did manage to succeed under such circumstances, the political fallout would be phenomenal.

Grimly, he realised that whatever the outcome of the situation, his successful career with Starfleet was essentially over. Even if Starfleet Command decided by some miracle not to have him cashiered out of the service in disgrace, he would almost certainly be stripped of rank and given the most abject duty available.

"I'm detecting activity from one of the vessels above us," Richards announced. "It looks like they're lowering something from their ventral cargobay."

Kelland looked up at his first officer. "Can you identify it?" he asked.

"It's a metallic object of some kind," the first officer elaborated, scrutinising the sensor data intently. "Reading large concentrations of tricobalt explosive."

The captain needed no more information. "It's a bomb," he announced sharply, turning to address Lennox at tactical and speaking with a forced calm that he didn't feel. "Begin broadcasting a distress signal and reroute all available power to the shields. Shore them up as best you can!"

A tricobalt bomb was an outdated weapon whose origins could be found back in the mid twenty-third century, designed to be used against an enemy's planetside facilities or slow-moving targets like spacestations or supply depots. Kelland knew that they were also extremely powerful weapons despite their crude nature, and though they were virtually useless when used against starships, the stationary Houston was currently a perfect target.

If the bomb exploded at this range, even with the shields at maximum power, the Houston would be lucky to survive.

"Open a priority channel to those ships," Kelland ordered urgently.

"Channel open," Lennox confirmed. "They can hear you, captain."

"This is Paul Kelland commanding the Federation starship Houston," the captain announced, speaking with an urgency that reflected his anxiety. "Call off your attack and we can resolve this situation peacefully and without bloodshed. If you destroy this ship the consequences for both the Federation and the Romulan Empire will be extreme. Please respond."

Long, tense moments passed as Kelland and the rest of the bridge crew awaited a transmission from the surrounding vessels.

"They've cut the bomb loose, captain," Richards said quietly, his voice carrying an apparent resignation that there was nothing more they could do to prevent what would happen next.

"Shields are holding at seventy percent of maximum," Lennox added.

At that moment, the Houston shuddered heavily. Kelland had been in space long enough to recognise that tractor beams had been attached to the hull of his ship.

"Reading a power surge in -"

Doug Richards' never finished his sentence. 


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER ONE

A hundred starships of a dozen different classes sparkled in the reflected starlight, all lying at rest in stationary parking orbits thousands of kilometres above the dusty red surface of Mars. Some floated free, while others were cocooned within the tentacles of massive drydocks, held in place like seagoing vessels being consumed by kraken of ancient myth.

Although Lisa Tennant had visited the vast shipyards of Utopia Planetia many times during her sixteen year career, that familiarity had not bred contempt. Even as a newly-minted captain she found herself as in awe of the enormous construction and maintenance facility as she had been as a second-year cadet, touring the shipyards for the first time with her academy classmates.

Sitting in the large, deserted passenger compartment of the passenger shuttle as the pilot wove the vessel between the massive interstellar vessels being worked on by Mars' industrious engineers, Tennant wondered if she would ever become blase about visiting Utopia Planetia. She hoped not. Now thirty six years old and well into her second decade of Starfleet service, she enjoyed that same feeling of elation that she'd felt at nineteen, arriving in Martian orbit aboard an Academy training ship.

Driven forward by its thrusters, the shuttle emerged from the shadow cast by a mammoth deuterium freighter whose stubby engine nacelles were being dismantled by engineers wearing EVA suits, prompting a sharp intake of breath from the shuttle's only other passenger as he spied the very different spacecraft that had suddenly become visible through the viewports.

"There she is," Stefan Rhodes said quietly, his voice full of both wonder and regret.

Tennant leaned forward slightly in her seat to gaze out at the collossal starship that floated in dock to starboard, so large that it dwarfed even the freighter they'd just flown by.

The USS Enterprise-D hung in space high above Mars, the four and a half million ton vessel making every other ship moored throughout Utopia Planetia appear insignificant by comparison. Through she was still weeks away from completion, the third galaxy-class starship to be built by Starfleet was nonetheless an awesome sight to behold, looking down upon her fellows as if she knew that she was different from the rest. Special.

"That's a big ship," Tennant observed with a smile, enjoying the feeling of pride that coarsed through her. Normally the construction of a Starfleet vessel roused very little emotion in her, even one as mighty as mighty as the one that now dominated the shuttle's many viewports. But the building of a new Enterprise was another matter entirely.

For this majestic spacecraft was destined to become Starfleet's next flagship, the crowning achievement of Federation science and technology. Within the month her construction would be completed, and the Enterprise would sail out of dock under her own power. After almost a year of exhaustive trials and shakedown cruises to locations throughout the Alpha Quadrant, she would undergo her commissioning ceremony, doubtless drawing guests and dignitaries from across the Federation and allied worlds.

But whilst Tennant looked upon the Enterprise with a sense of awe and pride, she knew that for Stefan Rhodes the sight of the new flagship brought with it only disappointment and longing.

"How are you feeling," she asked him quietly.

The young commander kept his gaze locked upon the smooth lines of the galaxy-class ship as the shuttle soared past. "What can I say?" the young man replied. "Captain Picard thought Will Riker was the better man for the job."

Tennant knew the selection process to find the Enterprise s first officer had been one of the most intense in Starfleet s history, with candidates from across the fleet putting themselves forward for the position of Jean-Luc Picard's second in command. Picard himself was renowned for being notoriously difficult to please, only accepting the very best into his crews and particularly his command staff. In the final stage of the selection process he'd personally conducted interviews with those he'd shortlisted in search of a suitable first officer.

Rhodes had been one of those interviewed aboard the Enterprise, but had ultimately lost out to Commander William Riker of the Hood.

He had also made little attempt to disguise his disappointment at being assigned as Tennant's new first officer following the rejection by Picard, and had been willing to talk about little else during their flight from Starfleet Command on Earth.

But whether he approved of that decision or not, Rhodes was an officer of the fleet and therefore bound by the chain of command. He would serve where Starfleet saw fit to place him, and Lisa Tennant refused to coddle this man and his self pity.

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by the Discovery," she said finally, redirecting the conversation as swiftly as the shuttle left the new flagship far behind. "My first assignment as captain was to supervise the three month overhaul that was just completed. We've upgraded most of her systems. It should see her through the next four years until decommissioning."

Rhodes glanced sideways at her. "Exactly how old is the Discovery?" he asked, frowning. "Seventy years?"

Tennant felt a familiar sense of pride building within her. "Sixty nine," she corrected. "She was launched from Utopia Planetia in 2293 under Captain John Randle, one of the last constitution-class ships to be commissioned by Starfleet. I'm her ninth captain."

The young commander blew out a long breath. "That's incredible. To still be flying after all this time."

"The ship was built with a projected hull-life of seventy-five years," Tennant told him. She'd had the same conversation with many people during her time aboard the ship as first officer, then as her captain. "It's easy to forget that Starfleet has always designed its vessels to remain in service for at least half a century. Unfortunately exploring the unknown depths of space can be a dangerous business so not many of them reach their intended lifespan. The Discovery is one of the lucky ones."

"And in four years she'll be decommissioned?"

Tennant nodded. "Some time during 2366," she confirmed, suppressing the slight pang of sorrow she felt at the prospect. "The exact date will depend on the amount of deuterium and antimatter still onboard at the time. We're not entirely sure what will happen after decommissioning but it seems likely she'll be handed over to the Smithsonian Institute on Earth as a museum piece."

"That's one hell of a way to end a career," Rhodes commented. "Don't other ships just get broken down after they're decommissioned?"

The captain flashed him a grin. "But the Discovery isn't like other ships," she countered teasingly.

Rhodes smiled wryly back at her, conceding the point. Tennant realised that the expression changed the man's face entirely, allowing his boyish good looks to shine through for the first time. Now that he'd lost the dour expression he'd carried with him since they'd met earlier that morning, she actually found Rhodes quite attractive. Of course she would neglect to mention the fact to her husband when she spoke with him that evening.

The Discovery s three month overhaul had allowed her to return home each evening to spend time with Richard Barnes, her husband of four years and one of the Federation's most noted archaeologists. By a cosmic coincidence his own ship, the private research vessel Solace, was docked above Earth undergoing extensive repairs following an encounter with the Gorn. The battered old vessel Doctor Barnes had owned since his early twenties had been orbiting a world deep inside Gorn territory investigating the ruins of an Iconian colony, when one of their warships had understandably taken exception to the Solace's presence.

But then Richard Barnes had never let such trivialities as territorial infringements stand in the way of his research.

A decade ago that same attitude had had very nearly triggered a war between the Federation and the Tholian Assembly.

Catching her mind wandering, Lisa Tennant refocused her attention on the man sitting quietly beside her in the shuttle's large passenger compartment. "Have you ever been aboard a constitution-class ship?"

"Not a real one," Rhodes replied. "I spent a few hours in the simulator back at Starfleet Command yesterday to get my certification but those things are hardly set up to give you the grand tour."

Tennant nodded. Before a command level officer could transfer to an unfamiliar class of vessel they were required to complete a short training scenario designed to prepare them for emergency situations such as an engine core jettison or full-scale evacuation.

"Well you'll be able to experience the real thing in a few minutes," she told him, as the pilot banked the shuttlecraft in a wide arc and silenced the sensor alarm alerted him to the spacecraft they were approaching.

As the shuttle turned, both officers watched the beautiful starship that slid into view.

The USS Discovery floated in open space, the great ship holding position at the edge of the Utopia Planetia fleet yard. Her crisp, uncomplicated lines were illuminated by running lights blinking their pattern, calling her captain home.

"We call her the Old Lady," Tennant whispered, a broad smile gracing her delicate features as her eyes drank in the spectacle of her first command, the sixty-nine year old wonder that had been turned over to her only three months earlier. Of all the vessels docked throughout Martian orbit, even the fantastic new Enterprise, at that moment Lisa Tennant couldn't be happier to be commanding the Discovery.

As they approached the old starship from astern, an incoming communications call broke the silence that had descended over the cabin.

"Incoming message for you from the Discovery, captain!" the pilot called crisply over his shoulder.

"Thank you, ensign," Tennant replied, and tapped the combadge on her uniform to link herself to the incoming communications call.

"Discovery to Captain Tennant," a disembodied male voice said over the speakers. "Welcome home, captain."

Tennant recognised the voice instantly as that of her tactical officer, Kieran Doyle. "Thank you, lieutenant," she answered. "There's no place like it. How's the ship?"

"The best she's been in ten years," Doyle replied happily. "Once you're aboard your presence is requested in the conference lounge. Admiral Sheppard beamed up from the surface an hour ago and would like an urgent conference with you."

The captain frowned. Bill Sheppard had commanded the Discovery for over ten years until the beginning of its recent overhaul, five of those years spent with Tennant as his first officer. When the ship had returned home three months ago Sheppard had been promoted to vice-admiral and reassigned to Starfleet Intelligence, and had been instrumental in securing Tennant's own promotion to captain.

"Trouble?" Commander Rhodes asked, obviously picking up on her reaction.

Tennant shrugged as the pilot brought the shuttle about to line it up with the hanger at the stern of the engineering hull. "I guess I'll find out soon enough," she said.

* * * *

Bill Sheppard had served the Federation for longer than most of the Discovery's crew had been alive, and throughout the eleven years he'd captained the Old Lady had forged a father like relationship with the people under his command.

When the Discovery had been recalled to Utopia Planetia for refitting following its encounter with the Tarl, and the then Captain Sheppard had announced his reassignment to the four hundred-strong crew via shipboard speakers, an almost overwhelming sense of sadness and loss had descended over the great ship. But that same sense of loss had been measured by an equal sense of pride. A position in the upper echelons of Starfleet Command, particularly the Intelligence division, was a terrific opportunity and one that everyone felt Sheppard both deserved and would thrive at.

For over a decade Sheppard had been both a captain and a close friend to everyone aboard the Discovery, particularly his close-knit command staff.

It was because of that fact that it came as no surprise to Lisa Tennant when she entered the observation lounge to find her former captain lounging in one of the padded chairs at the long conference table, laughing loudly with the ship's chief surgeon, Arthur Fry.

The chair at the head of the table, customarily taken by the captain and the one that Admiral Sheppard had sat in for so long, was unoccupied. Admiral Sheppard's intention was clear: he was no longer in command of his beloved Discovery, and had not taken his old chair as a sign of respect for Lisa Tennant.

Arthur Fry was a contemporary of Sheppard's, a large, friendly man whose white hair and moustache matched the colour of the long medical coat he always wore. It seemed as though not a day went by that Fry didn't complain how much he longed to retire and 'ride out the clock' back on Earth, but there was a consensus opinion amongst the crew that the good doctor would not entertain leaving Starfleet until the Discovery was herself retired.

Perhaps when the old ship was finally decommissioned Fry would make good on his promise, but until that day came he would be at his post in sickbay, where he had been for nearly three decades.

As Tennant entered the observation lounge located just behind and below the bridge, a sanctuary where the vessel's senior officers could conduct their meetings in private, she folded her arms across her chest and grinned broadly.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked the two men. The half-empty bottle of Fry's best Aldeberan whisky and two loaded glasses sitting on the long conference table told her that she was.

"Not at all!" the doctor exclaimed, turning slightly in his chair and gesturing toward the refreshments. "Would you care for a drink, captain?"

Tennant's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I'm on duty," she said dryly, still smiling.

"So are we," Admiral Sheppard answered nonplussed as he rose his glass in a toast. "But rank hath its privileges."

Fry nodded, joining the toast. "As does age," he added.

Both men downed what whisky remained in their glasses.

Tennant shook her head, eyeing the two men with mock admonishment but unable to banish the grin from her lips. "If you gentlemen are quite finished I believe there was the matter of an 'urgent conference'?"

Her words had an immediate effect, sweeping away their inebriation as easily as a sudden gust of wind swept away old cobwebs.

Sheppard's expression hardened, and he drew in a long breath as he slowly nodded his agreement. "I'm afraid there is," he confirmed, placing his glass down. "Could you give us some privacy, doctor?"

Fry pushed himself out his chair, a grim understanding present on his face as he plucked the bottle of whisky from the table and placed it in the crook of his arm. "We shall continue this at a later date," he told the admiral formally, before giving Tennant an affectionate tap on her shoulder as he went. "Good to have you back, captain."

The doors to the conference lounge hissed closed as Fry left and Tennant slid into her chair beside the admiral, who had turned to stare out at the endless expanse of the universe visible through the high windows.

"How has he been?" Sheppard asked softly, keeping his gaze locked on the starscape.

Tennant paused. Although she had been fully expecting it since learning that the admiral was aboard, Sheppard's inevitable question caught her off guard nonetheless. "He has good days and bad days," she answered honestly. "Of course he's too stubborn to admit that he's in pain but we all know he is. Whenever I try to talk to him about he clams up."

"He told me once that doctors make the worst patients," Sheppard said.

Tennant shrugged. "Perhaps it's because they know too much about what's happening to them," she suggested.

Both officers fell silent. Neither wanted to acknowledge the frightening reality of what their close friend faced.

Arthur Fry was dying.

Eight months ago a routine medical scan had revealed the presence of an aggressive and inoperable form of cancer infesting his body. When the doctor had returned from the starbase he'd visited to confirm his own diagnosis, he had brought with him the shocking news that by even the most optimistic estimates, he had only six years left to live.

With no means by which to combat the cancer, Fry had returned to duty as if nothing were wrong.

Three months earlier Starfleet had posted a junior doctor to the Discovery to work alongside Doctor Fry, the posting designed to give Doctor Victoria Merrick experience of medicine aboard a front line starship patrolling the frontier. Almost as soon as the young woman had reported for duty, Tennant had called her into her ready room and asked her to subtly monitor Fry's condition.

"Doctor Merrick provides me with updates on his condition every few weeks," Tennant told him. "Obviously his health is deteriorating but the cancer hasn't accelerated."

"And he isn't aware of her checking on him?" he asked.

"I don't think so. Her being an attractive young woman has worked in our favour," Tennant told him lightly. "He seems quite taken with Doctor Merrick. In fact he's commented that she's slowly making him reconsider his promise that he wouldn't get married for a forth time."

"We have the technology and resources of a hundred and fifty worlds at our disposal and there's nothing we can do to help him," Sheppard said. "When you consider how many lives that man has saved during his career, it doesn't seem fair."

Tennant remained silent. There seemed nothing more to say on the subject.

"How is your family?" she inquired, seeking to change the direction of the conversation.

"Marion has never been happier," he answered. "For reasons that escape me she genuinely enjoys me coming home at the end of the day and spending so much time with her."

Tennant chuckled to herself. She'd met Marion Sheppard many times in the last five years, an exceptionally pleasant woman who had lived her entire life on Earth. With no interest in travelling the galaxy, she had remained at the family home while her husband had been in space, awaiting those times between patrols when Starfleet gave him back to her.

The captain had no doubt that Marion was delighted when Bill Sheppard had been reassigned to Starfleet Command on Earth.

"And your husband?" the admiral asked. "I understand you've been spending a lot of time at home yourself recently."

"It's been wonderful," Tennant hold him honestly. "With the Discovery in dock and Richard's ship being repaired we've spent more time together in the last three months than we have since we were married."

"You almost sound sorry to be shipping back out," Sheppard observed.

Tennant sighed. Her old captain knew her well.

"Up until three months ago our marriage was at a standstill," she explained. "I was on the Discovery in one part of Federation space and he was digging up artifacts in another. But with the refit and his encounter with the Gorn everything has changed. Now that the work on the Discovery is finished I'm afraid we're just going to slip back into our old ways."

Sheppard leaned back in his chair. He remained silent, as if urging her to continue.

"We're both heading out again and neither of us knows the next time we'll see each other," Tennant said. "I'm thirty-six years old. At some point I'd like to start a family and we can't do that a thousand light-years apart.

The admiral looked at her, holding her gaze for long moments. "You know that in three years the Discovery will be decommissioned. A lot of the crew will be standing down at that time."

His unspoken suggestion hit her like a photon torpedo. "You think I should leave Starfleet?"

Having spent almost half her life in the fleet, the very idea seemed alien to her.

"There's more to life than exploring space, Lisa," he told her earnestly. "Sometimes you can see wonders more spectacular at home that you can in the farthest reaches of the galaxy."

She understood what he meant, and what he was referring to. Sheppard himself had a large family, and was father to five children. He was telling her that the sight of a newborn son or daughter was more astounding than any nebula cloud or supernova.

In that moment, for the first time since entering the academy eighteen years earlier, a whole world of new possibilities seemed to open up to Lisa Tennant. Ones that didn't revolve around exploring the galaxy.

And ones that seemed equally exciting.

But this was not the time nor the place to make such life-changing decisions.

"I have the feeling you didn't come out here to talk about my career plans," she ventured.

Sheppard sighed quietly, almost as if he was reluctant to burden his former first officer and friend with the knowledge he'd carried with him from Earth. "There's trouble brewing out on the Romulan frontier," he explained finally, deliberately. "What do you know about the York?"

The captain leaned forward in her chair, placing her hands on the cool table and interlacing her fingers as she formulated her reply.

"They're a former subject of the Romulan Empire," she began. "They're an offshoot of the Vulcans just like the Romulans. About ten years ago they were cut loose by the Empire. No one is sure why. Their ships turn up throughout the Neutral Zone territories from time to time, committing minor acts of piracy and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Starfleet has had a few skirmishes with them but nothing major."

Sheppard nodded. "Starfleet Intelligence has been monitoring them closely ever since they were cast out by Romulus. When they were part of the Empire the York seemed to function as enforcers of some sort, enforcing the Romulans' will on races where the situation wasn't imporant enough for the Romulan Guard themselves to deal with. We know that they're biologically very similar to the Romulans, but mentally they appear to lack whatever characteristics drove the Romulans to conquer worlds build such a formidable interstellar empire. They seem to manufacture almost no technology of their own, everything they have is outdated Romulan military surplus."

"Nonetheless I thought the York were considered a minor threat to Federation security," Tennant said.

"That's always been the case," the admiral agreed. "Until now. A couple of months ago the York military staged a coup d' tat on their homeworld, assassinated most of the government and seized power. The result of this is that a week ago the York landed troops on the planet Abalone, a world inside the Romulan Neutral Zone. And two days ago they managed to capture the USS Houston."

Tennant was shocked. Like many other Starfleet officers, Tennant was an avid student of history, and when the Discovery had been permanantly assigned to the Neutral Zone she had taken it upon herself to become better aquainted with the history of the region. The York's motivation to retake Abalone came from one of the darkest moments ever witnessed by the Federation.

Abalone was not simply another planet in the Neutral Zone, to the York it was their spiritual home, the world on which they'd settled after leaving Vulcan a thousand years earlier as dissidents. A number of different groups created new civilisations throughout this part of the galaxy, most notably the group who would become the Romulans and would eventually come to rule over their fellow dissidents. For centuries the York civilisation had flourished, but its proximity to Romulus and the inferior technology of its inhabitants meant that Abalone was one of the first worlds conqured by the fledgling Romulan Star Empire.

But following the Treaty of Algeron at the outset of the twenty-forth century, both the Romulan Empire and the Federation had renounced parts of their territory alongside the existing Neutral Zone in order to widen the buffer between the two powers. Abalone, having teetered on the edge of the Neutral Zone for over a century, was now located inside it, and since the York were a part of the Empire needed to be vacated. Pursuant to the new treaty and driven by their desire to make peace with the Federation, the Romulan Empire commanded the York to abandon Abalone. Of course many of the York had refused, and the Empire's response had been to order Romulan warships to begin obliterating cities from orbit. Within months, Abalone went from being the home of six billion people to an uninhabited world, with large parts of its surface ravaged by Romulan weapons.

It was an event almost unparalleled in galactic history. Admittedly forced relocations had occured before, the act itself was not without prescedent, but the sheer scale of the undertaking had been phenomenal. Tennant tried to imagine the logistical implications, not to mention the ethical ones, of moving Earth's entire population elsewhere in the Alpha Quadrant.

Considering the tragic circumstances which had led them to abandon their world, Tennant could understand the York's desire to return home. But for the York to seize a world in one of the most heavily-guarded and closely monitored tracts of space in the Alpha Quadrant, on the doorstep of both the Federation and Romulan Empire, whatever its significance to them, was almost unthinkable to her.

"Two weeks ago?" she marvelled, genuinely shocked by what Sheppard had told her. "A former Romulan subject race invades a world in the Neutral Zone and I'm only just finding out about it? Am I that out of touch?"

"You're not out of touch," he assured her. "Starfleet Intelligence has suppressed news of the invasion in order to avoid a panic amongst Federation citizens. We're only now recovering from a prolonged conflict with the Cardassians, and the York entry into the Neutral Zone could quite possibly trigger a new Romulan war."

Tennant's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I had no idea Starfleet was so adept at dispensing misinformation," she said, not intending the comment to sound quite as cynical as it had.

Sheppard didn't appear taken aback. "By invading a Neutral Zone world and capturing a Starfleet ship the York have stopped being an annoyance and become a major threat to Federation security that must be addressed."

Tennant looked at him. "How was the Houston captured?"

Sheppard shook his head. "We're not entirely sure," he admitted. "Somehow Paul Kelland ended up inside the Neutral Zone near Abalone and half a dozen York warships ambushed him. God only knows what he was doing there!"

"It almost sounds like the Kobayashi Maru," Tennant muttered.

"Don't give me that," the admiral snapped. "The Kobayashi Maru is a fictional training scenario designed to help with the psychological evaluation of cadets! It is most certainly not a textbook example of how to deal with a similar scenario in the real world! Kelland could have started an all out war with the Romulan Empire! Hell he still might!"

"Could the York have lured the Houston over the border in some way?" Tennant asked.

"If they did then he's even more of an idiot than I already think he is," Sheppard said. "I mean we're not talking about a wet behind the ears ensign flying a shuttlecraft here! Paul Kelland is a veteran with fifteen years starship command experience in charge of a state of the art Federation vessel! There's a reason only a fraction of Starfleet officers are ever given their own ship, because the entire process is set up to only admit the best of the best! Those checks and balances are in place for precisely this reason, so starship captains don't go tearing round the galaxy starting wars with people!"

"What is Starfleet planning on doing next?"

"This is the problem," he told her grimly. "When we found out the York had invaded Abalone an emergency session of the Federation Council was convened with most of Starfleet Command in attendance. Starfleet told the council members that it wouldn't pose too much of a problem driving the York off the planet with our superior firepower and numbers, obviously expecting to get the go ahead to proceed with planning the operation. The Federation Council on the other hand had other ideas, and after the best part of a day spent in private discussions decided that sending a fleet to Abalone would be too dangerous. They feel that Starfleet engaging in a conflict with a former subject of the Romulan Empire, right on the Empire's doorstep, runs too high a risk that the Romulans would intervene, thereby triggering a full scale war."

Tennant looked at him for a long moment before speaking, gauging his mood. "Could they be right?"

"I don't know," he said, almost dismissively. "The Federation Council just wants us to stand by and let the York take Abalone. Their view is that an uninhabited planet that was abandoned fifty years years ago isn't worth risking war with Romulus for. But the majority of people at Starfleet Command are taking the view that if the Federation stands by and lets the York overrun a solar system on the edge of our territory with no impediment, what stops them invading other worlds throughout the Neutral Zone, or possibly even ones inside Federation space? The commander in chief has gone on record as saying that the eyes of both the Federation's allies and adversaries will be watching what they do or do not do in response, and if the Federation is seen to allow the invasion it will appear to everyone as a toothless old cat, and it could be a matter of months before its enemies begin encroaching on its territory."

"What about the Houston?" Tennant asked. "Surely the Federation Council isn't contemplating writing off the illegal seizure of a Starfleet ship?"

"Our diplomats have been in almost constant contact with the new military dictatorship on the York's new homeworld, trying to secure the release of the Houston, and the Federation Council has protested in the strongest possible terms about the invasion of Abalone and seizure of a Starfleet ship But the diplomatic approach seems to hold no truck with whoever is now in charge on York. The York government is claiming Abalone was wrongfully taken from them and that they've simply taken back what's rightfully theirs, and as such claims to have seized the Houston for tresspassing. The York say they're considering releasing the one hundred and forty men and women who were aboard the Houston at the time, which we think they almost certainly will in order to placate the Federation Council, but the voluntary release of the ship itself seems extremely unlikely."

"So the York have a state of the art new-orleans class starship in their possession," Tennant said slowly, contemplating the implications of such a situation. "They'll be able to reverse engineer it, dismantle the engines, weapons, shields, sensors, anything and everything they want, study and duplicate the whole lot."

Sheppard nodded. "Their technology could jump five decades forward in a couple of years if they can duplicate the systems aboard the Houston. But there is also an even more worrying possibility."

"They could give the ship to the Romulans in return for political support over retaking Abalone," Tennant proposed without hesitation. "Or the Romulans could overwhelm them with force of arms and take it."

"If that happens the consequences are unthinkable. Hell, as bad as the situation already is I'd rather the York hang onto the ship than the Romulans get hold of it. They'd have it broken down into it's component parts for study within weeks. Within six months they'd know every molecule of the ship and what it did. Not to mention the amount of data stored in the computers, enough to keep a couple of hundred Romulan researchers busy for the next ten years."

"This entire situation has caused a massive rift between the Federation Council and Starfleet," he told her. "Of course there's always been conflict between civilian governments and the military for as long as anyone can remember, but this time it's threatening to blow up into something very serious. The halls of Starfleet Command are echoing with voices calling for us to go against the ruling and go kick the York off Abalone without the government's consent."

"If Starfleet starts down that road it won't be long before we're staging a coup d' tat of our very own," she said, before the implications of her words had fully set in.

For a moment, Tennant hesitated, wondering if Sheppard had come from Earth to approach her about supporting a plot to go against the Federation Council's decision and act against the York on their own. Were there admirals visiting other captains that morning, all trying to secure a promise from starship captains that they would use their ships in defiance of the government's orders? How could the Federation Council rule without the support of the military?

"It won't come to that," Sheppard said finally. "If the Federation Council insists we don't send a fleet to Abalone then it doesn't go, although Starfleet Command is trying to convince them otherwise. What we are going to do is send a taskforce to the Neutral Zone border. I'm sure you've seen how busy Utopia Planetia has been the last few days."

"Has the Council agreed to that?" she asked.

"We don't need them to. Starfleet deploys its ships throughout Federation space as we see fit, the Federation Council doesn't get a say in the matter. As long as we stay inside our borders there's no real complaint they can make."

"What are my orders?" Tennant inquired.

"The task force won't be ready to ship out for another few days," Sheppard told her. "No doubt you saw the freighter parked alongside when your shuttle docked. It's transferring supplies and weapons for you to take out to the Truman and Roosevelt. Lieutenant Sharma is having quite a headache trying to find room for everything. As soon as everything is loaded you'll be departing for your usual patrol route along the Neutral Zone. The task force won't be far behind."

The Discovery's new captain tapped her combadge. "Tennant to Sharma."

"Sharma here, captain," the scientist replied, raising his voice over the sounds of a busy cargobay.

"How soon do you expect all the stores to be aboard?"

"Another two hours should do it, captain," Sharma answered. "I can't promise that the junior officers won't be sharing their bed with a photon torpedo tonight though. Admiral Sheppard seems to be under the impression that the three months of refitting was to turn the Discovery into a cargo ship."

Both Tennant and Sheppard smiled broadly. "Be careful he doesn't hear you, lieutenant. Comments like that plus you obvious aptitude for cargo handling might lead the admiral to transfer you to a freighter," she told him. "Tennant out."

With that, both officers stood up and Sheppard offered his hand. Tennant shook it firmly.

"I have complete faith in you," he said warmly. "As I have for five years. Taking a ship out for the first time as her captain is something only a select few officers will ever have the privilege of experiencing."

Tennant nodded.

"I'll be in touch," he said, before turning and exiting the conference lounge, leaving Tennant to stare out at space from the conference lounge of her first command.

* * *

In the compact quarters that had been provided for him, Stefan Rhodes methodically unpacked the small cloth bag he'd brought with him from Earth. He had travelled light, bringing with him only a handful of personal effects from his parent's home on Earth where he'd been living these last few weeks.

As he unpacked the bag, he couldn't help but notice how little he actually owned in the way of possessions.

Not for the first time, Rhodes wondered if he had perhaps sacrificed too much in pursuit of a career in Starfleet.

As he listened to the soothing tones of a piece of Bajoran music, Rhodes removed a small photoframe containing a years old image of his parents and sister and placed it gently on the cabin's small desk. The quarters were smaller than those he'd become accustomed to aboard the more modern Exeter and far more sparsely decorated, with none of the warm pastel walls or soft traction-carpet that furnished Starfleet's latest vessels. The cabins on the Discovery were filled with hard edges, with only metallic deckplates underfoot.

From the moment he disembarked the shuttlecraft and set foot on this starship, Rhodes felt as if he'd stepped back in time a hundred years. He was essentially correct. Of course almost all her systems had been replaced since the Discovery had first entered service seventy years earlier, but even the massive overhaul of 2341 had seen Starfleet do little to make her crew accommodations more comfortable. Yes, every cabin now contained a modern replicator, but Rhodes was certain that he would never think of these new quarters as homely.

Dismissing such thoughts, he checked his reflection in the small mirror as he prepared for his first duty shift as second in command of this soon to be retired starship that her crew affectionately called the Old Lady.

Rhodes decided that he could think of far less sympathetic names for the antiquated vessel.

He had sacrificed his comfortable position as first officer of the Exeter four months earlier to be interviewed for the post of the new Enterprise's second in command. Normally an interview for a new job wouldn't require an officer to give up his current posting, but the Exeter was currently assigned to the Endymon sector three hundred light-years from Earth. After the four-month voyage back to Starfleet Command had led to an unsuccessful application, and having burned his bridges on the Exeter, Rhodes had been assigned to the Discovery.

His current posting was about as far from what he'd intended as he could imagine.

The gentle sound of the door chime snapped Rhodes out of his reverie and back to the present.

"Pause music," the commander ordered, turning toward the cabin's only exit. "Come in."

The twin panels hissed open, and Lieutenant Keiron Doyle stepped over the threshold. Doyle was a tall, powerful looking man of around forty, who appeared to view everyone and everything with an expression that was somewhere between contempt and cynicism.

Captain Tennant had mentioned to Rhodes that Doyle had served on the Discovery for the last five years as head of tactical and security. His previous posting as been as a physical training instructor at Starfleet Academy, a position he'd left after requesting service back aboard a starship.

Meeting the man in person, Rhodes had no problem believing it.

"The captain asked me to give you the grand tour," the newcomer explained crisply, speaking in a deep basso voice that almost seemed to resonate within the confines of the cabin. Even as he spoke, his eyes appeared to dart around the room as if looking for an unseen enemy.

"I'd appreciate that," Rhodes said, resisting the impulse to stand to attention in this man's presence.

"She sends her apologies for not showing you around herself," the tactical officer continued, "but Admiral Sheppard wants us to get under way as soon as possible. Shall we go?"

He'd been given quarters on the edge of the primary hull, and as Rhodes exited his quarters and stepped into the long passageway that ran around the entire circumference of the saucer section, Rhodes noted that the corridors of the Discovery bore a definite resemblance to those he'd seen aboard the Enterprise-D when he'd arrived for his meeting with Captain Picard. He wondered if the shipwrights who'd planned the new flagship had designed the interior of the galaxy-class to have a slightly retro appearance.

But such observations swiftly vanished when Rhodes narrowly escaped being knocked to the deck by a man wearing a loose shirt and running shorts who darted past him.

"Saunders, watch where the hell you're going!" Lieutenant Doyle bellowed after the other man in a voice powerful enough to be heard throughout the vast saucer.

"Sorry, sir!" the man, Saunders presumably, called over his shoulder without stopping.

At that moment two more people dressed in casual clothes jogged past, this time at a more leisurely pace.

"Am I missing something?" Rhodes asked frowning, watching the man and woman jog out of sight around the gentle curve of the passageway.

Doyle shrugged slightly. "I'm afraid you'll have to watch out for traffic during the mornings, commander," he explained. "A lot of the crew use the 411 to exercise at this time of day."

"411?" Rhodes repeated.

"The corridor that runs around the perimeter of the saucer section," the tactical specialist elaborated. "So called because it has a circumference of four hundred and eleven metres. A couple of laps around the 411 every morning does wonders for the legs. You should try it."

"Didn't they build these ships with gymnasiums in 2291?" he groaned.

Doyle smiled wryly. "We have those too, sir" he confirmed, leading the way down the long corridor.

Rhodes fell into step beside the larger man, making a mental note to review the Starfleet regulations regarding improper use of corridors onboard ship. 


End file.
